Work Text:
He's been doing this for a long time now, Ian's beginning to wonder if it's too long. It was fun at first –a hobby to keep his boyfriend out of trouble, out of juvie, away from his family– but now Mickey's his husband and doing drag has become a bonafide profession.
A profession that wrings Mickey out, puts him in compromising positions. Forces him to max out the credit cards in advance of a big event in order to pay for this piece of costumery or that pair of earrings.
“And what if I combine my new gown with these new shoes? Whaddya think, Gallagher?”
Ian says the same shit he always does. Same sentiment, different words.
“I think you're mindfucking yourself, Mick. You don't need a new anything; you want a new everything.”
Mickey throws a titty pad across the room, hitting Ian in the face. His pout is the same one he uses on stage, which is how Ian knows this isn't a serious fight. When this bitch wants to fight for real, Ian can count on his murder husband to make an appearance.
He's full of sugar, and Ian knows why.
“Asshole,” he says, “you're just pissed ‘cause now you hafta sew a ball gown in two days.”
And there it is, the thing he hasn't overtly agreed to. Yet.
“Not how I want to spend my time off, Mick.” Ian frisbees the titty pad back at him.
“Aw, c'mon, man. Who else? You know my measurements,” he stands up here, putting his hands on his waist to show it off, “you know my vibe. That info alone knocks two days off the process.”
He's not wrong. The most time-consuming aspect of any sewing commission is the time spent on gathering Intel, drawing the mock ups, submitting for review –and repeating the process if the ideas aren't to the client's satisfaction.
With Mickey, none of that is necessary. Ian knows his husband better than he knows the back of his hand. Knows his measurements before and after padding. Knows his aesthetic.
“I see ya thinking. Is that a yes?” Mickey's still got his stage pout on.
“No.”
“But why?”
“Because, Miss Steaks Weremaid, I did overtime this week. That leaves me with two, instead of three, days to recover. You know this.”
“Argh!” Mickey flounders around the room until he lands on the settee, delicately fanning himself with tattooed fingers.
“Drama queen.”
He peeks through his fingers. “Is it working?”
“No.”
“Motherfucker!”
Ian can clock it –thirty more seconds ‘til murder husband. He's not in the mood for that. “Buy one.”
“Can't. Gonna need the cards clear for next month's pageant.”
“Responsibility sucks, huh?” Ian laughs.
Surprisingly, murder husband does not make an appearance, rather Mickey sits up on the settee, arms crossed. “It's… I don't… How much longer you think you're gonna be doing that paramedic shit?”
“You mean the paramedic shit that got us health insurance?”
Mickey rolls his eyes.
“Or is it the union protected retirement plan and steady paycheck you're offended by?”
“Alright, you made your–”
“I don't think I have,” Ian continues. “What about my schedule? Has the twenty-four on, thirty-six off become inconvenient?”
Mickey stands up, murder mode activated. “Fine, enough! Fuck me for thinkin' it be nice if you came to work for me.”
Ian shakes his head. “What?”
Slowly, Mickey sits back down. “We could travel together. I wouldn't have to rely on club security or go in on hiring a guy when the club doesn't have good people watching out for the queens.”
“Wait, this is a serious conversation? We're having a real conversation about this?” Ian asks, tilting his head, as if that makes listening easier.
Mickey shrugs. “I mean, yeah. You're always sayin' how much more you make on commissions than as a paramedic.”
Ian is quiet for a long time.
From his position in the wingback chair they bought when they first signed the mortgage on this small house, Ian scans the living room. Walls with wainscoting on the bottom half painted dark blue up to the chair rail, and a warm cream color above it. Windows decorated with curtains that he sewed himself out of fabric that Mickey had picked out.
They live on the outermost edges of the city now, too far to commute by public transportation, but close enough for a quick drive to visit their family scattered around the greater Chicago area. As a result, their home is uniquely them. A statement of the them they had left behind, who they've now become.
Leaving paramedics behind would mean more stability for his mental health. It would mean being able to accompany his husband on the two cross-country club tours he takes a year.
But Ian likes his job, loves feeling like he's making a difference.
Then he remembers the club audiences –the scores of queer youth who have asked him, as well as Mickey, about surviving unsupportive parents. Or abusive partners. Or toxic relationships. Or body dysmorphia. Or… or… or.
Ian inhales. “I thought you enjoyed having the place to yourself when I'm on my twenty-four.”
“Bullshit.” Mickey gets up from the city, walks across the room to where Ian is sitting, and lowers himself on to his husband's nap. “Only ever said that shit to make you feel better about leaving me alone for 24-hours. Best part'a my week's when you're on your thirty-six leave.”
Ian pulls him down for a sweet kiss that turns heated quickly. The taste of Mickey's black cherry lip gloss and scent of Ian's musky cologne enhance the experience.
“So, is that a yes?” Mickey asks, when they break the kiss, their foreheads still connected.
Ian reaches up to lick at the point of his husband's chin. “What exactly am I sayin' yes to? Working for you or making you a ball gown in two days?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a maybe on leaving my job,” Ian grins. “You hated being locked up with me, not sure why you'd wanna sign up for a lifetime of entrapment.”
“No one else I'd wanna be trapped with but you, Gallagher,” Miss Steaks Weremaid, otherwise known as Mickey Milkovich says. “And my gown?”
“Jesus, you're pushy.”
Mickey beams.
“I'll alter one of your old ones, absolutely not making one from scratch.”
“Thank you.” A kiss to Ian's nose. “I'm on dinner.”
“Breakfast, too.” A nibble on Mickey's jawline. “Got a lot of work ahead of me.”
“You got it, big guy.” Mickey flutters off to the kitchen to make some cooking noises.
In the spare bedroom where they keep all of Mickey's drag, Ian studies the gowns he's got at his disposal. As he fingers fabrics, tugs on zippers, he can feel the proverbial creative juices flowing. A thought occurs: maybe a life trapped in the drag world with his husband –making costumes, sewing couture– might not be all that after all.
He takes down the gown he knows will go perfectly with the show’s theme –an off the shoulder number that shows off Mickey's long neck– and gets to work.